


the sound of something breaking

by awkwardspaceturtle (CastelloFlare)



Series: his brother's keeper [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blow Jobs, Child Abuse, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Pining, Psychological Trauma, Sibling Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastelloFlare/pseuds/awkwardspaceturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s <i>you</i>,” Keith whispers, realization dawning on him. “<i>You’re</i> the one who’s obsessed with him.”</p><p>Instantly, Kuro’s fingers loosen their grip for a split second, and Keith notes how his eyes had dilated at the sudden spoken revelation. Judging by his reaction, Keith realizes two things; one, apparently, this might be the first time anyone’s ever said that to him. And two, the accusation rings true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sound of something breaking

**Author's Note:**

> okay, before you start on this almost 4k fuckery, let me just post a disclaimer:  
> this is my first time incorporating abuse in my works, and it is in no way intended to represent or offend anyone, so if you find something even remotely invalidating or insulting child abuse victims, feel free to educate me (softly please) or suggest what else to put up on the tags to properly warn people, because i really have a lot to learn on this topic and i'm a willing listener  
> i only hope to contribute to the shirocest side of the fandom (we need more works!!!! omg i thirst) and with a humble heart, i thank you for taking the time to read this amateur yet honest attempt at writing  
> thank you so much!

 

The face he’s kissing looks like Shiro’s; the thick burly arms his nails dig into look like Shiro’s; the thick neck flushed with the heat of passion that his teeth sink into also looks like Shiro’s – but that’s it. This person only _looks like_ Shiro.

Hell, Keith doesn’t even know if this is how Shiro must _taste_ like.

And yet because they look the same, because the sex is so _fucking_ good, because _he_ lets Keith call out Shiro’s name when he comes – Keith doesn’t let this go.

This, he believes, is the closest he can be to holding Shiro.

Never mind that he would later find new bruises blooming on his skin afterwards. Never mind that he has to cover up the bite marks and hickeys with long sleeved shirts despite the sweltering summer heat. Never mind that the one who’s fucking him is the evil twin.

 

 

The classroom was dark; curtains were drawn and the lights were shut off, the only light in the room provided by the projector flashing images on a thin white screen in front of the class. The audiovisual room was pretty cramped with all members of the Astrological Society crammed into a single four-walled room, a fact that Keith would have dreaded if it were not for the fact that he was wedged between the wall and his upperclassman Takashi Shirogane.

Or more accurately, Takashi _hot-as-fuck_ Shirogane with the amazing body and million dollar smile. Also the same Takashi Shirogane who Keith has recently caught staring at him multiple times since the start of the semester.

With a staggering amount of effort, Keith willed himself to focus on the presentation in front; the professor had left a video on the documentary of the history of aircrafts playing, and had dozed off in his seat at the front row of chairs. Everyone else was either watching the video, whispering with each other, or sleeping as well. Heck, it was dark, and the students were technically unsupervised, anyone could be really doing anything.

Keith caught one couple kissing in one corner. He knows the sight has caught Shiro’s eyes, too.

In their own corner, they’re close enough that their thighs more than brushed each other. Keith’s right leg pressed too close against Shiro’s left. Their hands, on their knees, mere inches away.

Keith doesn’t allow himself to have the first move. Every time he catches Shiro staring, he’d always wonder, _how long has he been looking_? _Do I smile or wave to acknowledge him_? And yet he’d always find himself waiting for Shiro to do something.

This time, it was still the same. Shiro did _nothing_.

 

 

His thoughts too muddled in the aftermath of mind blowing sex, Keith feels surprised that the disappointment from this afternoon in the audiovisual room still lingers even now with the tension already released from his loins, drowned away under waves and waves of pleasure. Some people get drunk to forget – in his case, he has sex. So why does he still feel empty and emotionally restless?

“Wow,” Kuro whistles from behind him as he pulls his jeans up his firm legs. Even after doing it thrice this evening – it was a Friday – he doesn’t look half as wasted as Keith is, who had resigned to lying naked tangled in the sheets, which was pretty much how Kuro leaves him every night. “You are _so obsessed_ with him.”

“Shut up,” Keith mutters into the sheets, and viciously throws a pillow towards Kuro, who despite his size was gifted with an extraordinary grace, and managed to catch the cushion with ease.

“You got new pictures of him on your wall today,” Kuro smirks, his smile disturbingly amusing. Keith notes how this little thing is a big difference between the twins – Shiro’s smile always looks gentle. Kuro’s never is.

“As if this surprises you,” Keith says, then he turns on his side to rest. Sex with Kuro, no matter how incredibly good it was, always left a bad aftertaste in his mouth. “Lock the door when you leave.”

“I bet you still jerk yourself off to these pictures after I leave—”

“What’s it to you?” Keith looks over his shoulder and arches an eyebrow at him. _Fuck-and-Go_ – that was Kuro’s system, regardless of who asked him to bed them. Less conversation, more sexual gratification. Three sentences after fucking – _that_ was a first.

Instead of answering verbally, Kuro flashes him yet another wide, sinister grin.

Keith feels his blood suddenly run cold, his skin go damp with cold sweat. He instinctively pulls his blanket tighter around himself, a futile attempt at self-protection. Facing Kuro, he always finds himself naked, vulnerable – in more ways than one.

“Don’t get carried away, little kitty,” Kuro says, and without preamble, he grabs Keith’s face, thumb and forefinger aggressively digging into the other teen’s cheeks. Keith gasps in pain and surprise as he is hoisted up into a sitting position on the bed, his eyes now in line with Kuro’s.

He’s still smiling, and yet Keith senses a threat.

“You can hold on to these pictures all you want, but that’s all you’ll ever have. You can continue taking his pictures like the disgusting stalker that you are, but you better stay that way – don’t even think you could ever get _near_ him,” Kuro says, looking disturbingly smug and yet somehow… _annoyed_? Keith isn’t quite sure, and yet despite the unease, the ache where Kuro’s fingers grip him, the uncomfortable strain in his throat, he swings his arm and aims for the evil twin’s face – the same one Shiro wears.

Kuro effortlessly catches his hand in midair. Then he laughs – a low cackle, sending shivers down Keith’s spine once more wrapping him in cold sweat.

“Feisty little kitty; not afraid to fight, yet hides behind his camera lenses when it comes to the person he loves. Sleeps with his twin, too, rides dick like a fucking cowboy and cries his name like a little bitch during every climax.” He pauses for effect, to let his dagger-like words sink in. He continues to smile, and Keith swears he sees Kuro lick his own upper teeth in a slow and deliberate manner, seemingly finding his own hurtful words delicious. “You are your own kind of creepy, aren’t you?”

What the hell was this – Kuro was always cruel physically but Keith had only always attributed his cruelty with sex, and yet now Kuro is suddenly… attacking him? Shaming him? What’s up with that? Kuro’s intense gaze washes over him, consuming him, wraps him in an uncomfortable darkness. Keith swallows, his eyes still locked with Kuro’s.

“You sleep with someone who you’re fully aware is in love with your own twin – hell, I hear you’ve never been in a relationship with anyone except when it’s sexual, and you only sleep with anyone on campus who’s rumoured to have just a slight crush on _him_ — just what kind of _creepy_ are _you_ …?”

Then it suddenly hit him like a jolt of electricity – _it oddly takes one to know one_.

Kuro has never referred to Shiro as _his brother_. Not even _his twin_. He would refer to himself as _the twin_ , but never Shiro. It was always just simply _him_. He’d never sounded particularly brotherly when mentioning his brother. Shiro’s name on his lips always sounded… different.

“It’s _you_ ,” Keith whispers, realization dawning on him. “ _You’re_ the one who’s obsessed with him.”

Instantly, Kuro’s fingers loosen their grip for a split second, and Keith notes how his eyes had dilated at the sudden spoken revelation. Judging by his reaction, Keith realizes two things; one, apparently, this might be the first time anyone’s ever said that to him. And two, the accusation rings true. The smile disappears for an instant, and in that split second of Kuro’s unexpected vulnerability, Keith should feel even just a little bit smug or victorious at figuring him out, but he doesn’t – on the contrary, his own realizations are beginning to disturb him.

 _He hates me_ , Keith thinks, his heart pounding inside his chest. _The only reason he sleeps with me is because he genuinely hates me_.

To what extent was Kuro planning to go through with his rough play in bed with Keith? What are the odds of the lingering bruises turning into permanent injuries if this arrangement is allowed to go on for longer? Keith stops thinking when he feels Kuro shiver, and hears a low rumble erupt from Kuro’s chest – he’s back to laughing yet again, back to being enigmatic and unreadable.

“Are you seriously implying that _I_ am a slave to something, or someone?” Kuro says, voice laced with both amusement and mock compassion. “Like I said, don’t forget your fucking _place_ , little kitty. Are you actually thinking that we are some sort of equals? _You disgusting little bitch_. All of you are the same. You all think you have the power, the right to take my better half away from me.”

 _Better half_ – that’s the first time he’s used the term. As if he’s married himself to his own twin.

Kuro’s fingers let go, but not without violently jerking Keith’s face away. He laughs, turns, reaches for the door.

“You bastard…!” Keith says. It sounds weak like his current resolve. “Who is Shiro to you? What are you to each other?”

Kuro turns one last time, eyes and smile both playful and alarmingly menacing. He knows what Keith is thinking. What Keith wants to _confirm_.

“My Shiro can’t belong to anyone else,” he simply says, leaving the silent yet implied _but me_ hanging at the end of the sentence, and walks out the door.

 

 

 

 

They were a happy family, once.

Their father, the biggest hero in the boys’ lives – made them their favorite pancakes, taught them how to ride a bike, took them to out to fly their kites, brought the galaxy into their room with his artistic hands. Their mother, as beautiful as she was intelligent, brought the sunshine into their house with her smiles, her songs, her incredible and amazing stories of her pilot days. She was pregnant with their baby sister, and the twins loved pressing their ears to her stomach and listened for the baby’s tiny beating heart. They lived in a modest house in the suburbs, near the ocean where the boys learned how to swim. They owned a dog named Champion, who walked around with a limp and a scar on his face, imperfections that only made him more lovable for his family.

They were all happy, once.

Until reality happened, and burst the big bubble of comfort and bliss they had been living in.

It was an accident, and she died instantly. It was almost month before the baby was due, a crisp, sunny autumn day, unbetraying of the tragedy about to unfold; the boys were out at school, the father was at work, she was out buying groceries. Nothing could have been done. She was thrown off the pavement. No one could save her and the baby.

And with her death, she took the sunshine out of the house with her.

Shiro and Kuro were nine years old.

The days that followed seemed to merge together; forgettable, irrelevant. Around them, cars sped and boasted of their loud screeching horns, planes flew by in their majestic trajectory across the skies, people wore earphones and jogged along the streets, and somewhere across the globe, people were falling in love, making friends, ending relationships – the world moved on and continued on its natural pace, oblivious to their pain and suffering, leaving them behind.

Their house became devoid of singing, of whimsically painting and repainting walls. Their bikes lay untouched in the basement; dust had gathered around the house, the ghost of happy memories haunted the walls. Father had stopped smiling, trapped in his own depressing thoughts and regrets. Sometimes Shiro would catch him on the dining room table, a cup of already cold coffee sitting in front of him untouched, arms placed on the table, dry eyes blankly examining their baby sister’s tiny rabbit-print socks in his thick, calloused hands. This always broke Shiro’s heart, and all Kuro could do was hold his brother’s hand every night as he silently wept.

She was supposed to be their little Aoi, another ray of sunshine to light up the house.

 

 

One day, it all just _shattered_.

This seemingly endless cycle of silent mundane days suddenly exploded into a million pieces of space dust, like a dying star blasting into its death. Just like Mother’s favorite mug, broken into infinite shards on the cold linoleum floor.

The sound of breaking was painfully audible, like a scream or an ambulance siren, calling attention. Shiro looked down on the floor, his hands trembling, petrified. Beside him, his twin stood by unmoving, looking at the shattered remains, and Shiro barely registered it when Kuro had placed a hand on his arm. He did not even feel the sting from where a broken shard grazed his skin, cutting it lightly, drawing a trickle of blood. He was only going to wash the mug, he swore. He was going to put it back on the rack like it was still being used, like it wasn’t an ornament in the house left for display.

Father’s footsteps served as his countdown to certain punishment – Shiro hangs his head low, readying himself to confess, preparing to get reprimanded for being careless. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking and he bit his lip, tasting iron. Father had stepped into the kitchen.

Silence.

The calm before the storm.

“Who did this?” was their Father’s cold, almost indifferent question.

“It was me,” Shiro heard himself say – the voice clearly, was his own, the same vocal timbre and articulation of sounds – and yet he did not feel his mouth move. He looked up from the floor, his eyes glassy.

“I did it,” Kuro said, with much more conviction than his first claim.

Once again, silence.

Shiro’s mind was at war – a battle of various contradicting emotions; terrified at what he’d done, stunned and nervous at what Kuro had done; and then a small insidious part of him, this hateful human side, _relieved_ for getting spared of Father’s wrath, an ugly feeling he quickly fought to push down inside him, intense guilt replacing it instead.

Then – the _slap_.

One hard calloused hand found its lethal mark on Kuro’s right cheek. To Shiro, that sound was louder than anything else broken that day.

For what seemed like hours, none of them moved – it was as if time had ceased inside that room, all the pent up rage and frustration unleashed in that single instant.

And without another word, Father left the kitchen, the sound of his footfalls bouncing off the walls of their dead, empty house. The slam of the front door when he left echoed like a finality, an end to something precious.

That night, Shiro wrapped his arms around Kuro and unsuccessfully rocked them both to sleep, his warm little body snug against his twin’s back, both tightly enveloped in a single blanket. His tears spilled onto the back of Kuro’s neck, his sobs lost in the small of Kuro’s back.

_Why isn’t he crying? Why is it only me crying?_

And yet deep down, Shiro knew, just as how he’d always known from the moment they were born that he would always love this person he had shared a womb with. The sound of Kuro breaking, unlike Mother’s favorite mug, was painfully _in_ audible.

 

 

Father’s violent tendencies didn’t end with just a slap.

A good day was when they came home while Father was out, or when they were ignored, left to do their schoolwork and the house chores. A not so good day was when Father would suddenly lash out at them, either in the state of inebriety or due to a resurfacing memory. The worst was when Father raised his hand, and it went down _hard_.

The bruises would always be somewhere their teachers or classmates wouldn’t see – under their uniforms, on their back, on their legs above the knees, on their stomachs. Violet and red and yellow bloomed in ugly clusters on their skin, like their suffering painted on their own personal canvas.

They were eleven years old. Aoi should have been two.

Every night the twins would examine their bodies. They would prepare the clothes they could wear the next day to hide the bruises, the scars mapping their bodies. They would sometimes even joke about who got darker contusions. They’d touch each other where it hurts, and often times Shiro found he would fall asleep with a hand over Kuro’s heart.

Then that one particular night.

Kuro had been slapped so hard his lower lip was busted open. Father had lost at gambling and came home intoxicated, and the first thing he had to see was Kuro resting from soccer practice. Assuming he has slacking off, the hand was raised. And it came down hard.

That night in their room, they silently sat under a blanket for a long time, a lamp placed in the middle and casting shadows along the lines of their identical faces. They had not bothered to prepare clothes; nothing could hide an injury on the lips.

Then Kuro stirred, his hand slowly made its way and found Shiro’s. He squeezed, and Shiro squeezed back. Kuro took their hands and gently guided Shiro’s to ghost over his busted lip.

 _This_ , he was conveying with glassy eyes, _this is where I hurt._

Shiro’s fingers hovered, then came down and gently stroked on the wounded lower lip, caressing it carefully. Then without preamble, without overthinking it, he leaned in, momentarily dousing the light of the lamp with his body, and pressed his own lips against Kuro’s. Shiro felt his twin’s breath hitch a moment, yet he also easily succumbed into their chaste first kiss.

When they pulled apart, Shiro’s lip was tainted red with blood. This time, Kuro leaned in first, and licked his blood off his twin’s soft lip, tasting the tangy flavor of iron. He felt Shiro smile against him.

“At least you wouldn’t be totally lying if you told people someone bit your lip when you kissed them,” he whispered.

That particular night became their secret.

Their father drowned himself in liquor. The twins drowned themselves in each other.

 

 

 

 

Kuro barrels into the apartment; the walk back from Keith’s place did nothing to abate his anger. He may have been a little too uncharacteristically transparent back there, but it was the damn kid’s fault – who does he think he was anyway? He’s just one of those people who are trying to get close to Shiro – _his_ Shiro. Kuro needed to remind him of his place; humiliate him, torment him under the guise of passionate rough sex.

But of course someone different from the rest would come along, Kuro has always figured. That someone different is Keith, and he can tell, because unlike the rest, Keith has seen right through him and his foul play – and , regrettably, this feisty kid might just have the power of changing his current state of life, because for the first time, Shiro actually seems like he might fucking _reciprocate_.

Kuro slumps into the couch, sinking in its soft mattress, the sensation too familiar on his skin with all the times he’d fucked, and got fucked himself, on its cushions.

He lets his head dangle over the edge, and looks at the kitchen counter where Shiro is preparing to make dinner in the apron Kuro had initially bought for him for some domestic sex role play. Good, delicious times.

Kuro gets up and moves and crosses his way across the modest studio type apartment and wraps his arms around Shiro’s waist, uses his tongue to probe his twin’s ear. Shiro stops slicing the potatoes and puts down the knife. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops.

Kuro grins, a low chuckle bubbling from his chest. He knows Shiro can smell Keith’s scent on him, the post-coital musk of skin grinding against skin, the dizzying fragrance of infused sweat and semen and lust. Slowly, Kuro’s hands wander inside Shiro’s shirt.

“Shouldn’t you take a shower first?” Shiro says, the deepening of his voice betraying his actual desires. _He’s angry_ , Kuro thinks, Kuro knows. Shiro doesn’t have to say anything, but Kuro understands – _You slept with him_ again. _How long are you going to make me suffer? Why do you hurt yourself? Me? Them?_

“Ne, Shiro,” Kuro says, ignoring the question his twin said aloud. He’s pressing their bodies closer over the counter, his crotch against Shiro’s ass. One hand is fondling Shiro’s left nipple; the other has trailed down the light hair running down his hardened torso. Shiro visibly swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing in his neck.

Then, Kuro’s voice goes quieter, goes lower in his twin’s ear.

“Wanna know how he tastes?”

 

 

It’s almost like he just offered the most coveted ice cream to the hungriest kid – Shiro’s tongue, lips, teeth are magic and fireworks on and around his leaking erection. Shiro bites and sucks on his balls, letting Kuro’s saliva and cum-slicked cock rub on his flushed face, the taste of both him and Keith lost and muddled on Shiro’s skin and mouth.

 _Shit_ , Kuro thinks, as Shiro takes him back in his mouth again, the head of his penis making good friends with the back of his throat. Kuro’s fingers dig deep into his twin’s scalp, pushing him closer against his pelvis and pubic hair. Shiro isn’t quite done tasting him, tasting Keith, his eyes closed as his cheeks suck inward, clamping around the voluminous meat between his teeth.

“Nnggh,” Kuro grunts, his breathing is labored; and with one swift motion, he grabs onto both sides of Shiro’s face and fucking _slams_ his groin into him; beneath them, Shiro’s hand is furiously working up and down his own erection, needy and impatient for release. Kuro pounds into him faster, making Shiro grab onto his asscheek for support, clutches it in eager fingers.

It doesn’t take long for either of them to come, spasms rocking Kuro’s body and melting his knees, making him lean on the kitchen counter to retain balance; Shiro sprays his white load into the lower counter cabinet walls as he dutifully sucks on his twin’s still rockhard cock.

Once he’s thoroughly milked, Kuro brings Shiro up again and kisses him fiercely on the mouth, tasting himself and Shiro’s wet cavern, and maybe a little bit of that fucking Keith. His teeth sink into Shiro’s lower lip, eliciting a lustful, low moan; their tongues trapped in a dance of their own. Kuro’s head spins in explosive and heated pleasure, and yet he manages to recite a little prayer inside his head:

_Please, don’t let him be anyone else’s. Don’t let him be anyone else’s don’t let him be anyone else’s don’t let him be anyone else’s…_

He bites Shiro’s lips hard, tasting the salty tang of iron, sucks on it as he feels Shiro’s leg sliding in between his, pushing up against his still erect cock, the saliva and already drying cum decorating the entire length of it staining the edge of Shiro’s shirt.

Keith was right – _he_ is obsessed with Shiro.

But that’s only half the truth.

Shiro is quite obsessed with him, too.

They’re obsessed with each broken part of themselves, of every twisted memory they share. They’re always listening to the inaudible sound of the other shattering, breaking.

Like mother’s favorite mug.

 

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!!!  
>  so you stuck around until the end! thank you so much ;;;;;  
> i am also planning to write some more about the beginnings of kuro's obsession, which i was supposed to add here, except writing more than 2k oneshots gives me a headache so.... SORRY FOR BEING LAME AND WEAK  
> tho i will still write it as a separate piece, i guess, bc i really want to contribute some shirocest content ;;;  
> once again, thank you!! comments and/or kudos are love <3


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